Makoto Yamashina glanced around the room. "But if we can produce even one decent game that proves our team still has potential, the nature of this merger will change. Then it'll be a strategic alliance between equals—a true pooling of resources."
Everyone understood the math.
Tossing trash into the dumpster is free, but selling recyclables to a scrap yard at least nets you a little cash.
"Give them one last chance," the usually silent Financial Director finally spoke. "Approve one more round of funding for a final attempt. If they still churn out nothing but IP cash grabs that rely on milking fans—don't blame the company for being ruthless and sending them to Sega for re-education."
The voting was almost perfunctory.
Unanimous approval.
This wasn't due to any particular faith in the game department; it was purely about extracting even a fraction of a percentage point more leverage in the inevitable merger agreement.
Makoto Yamashina gazed at the overcast sky outside the window, feeling no sense of relief.
He knew that this so-called "last chance" was nothing more than a final meal for a condemned prisoner on the eve of execution.
As for whether he could turn the tables at the execution site—perhaps he already had his answer. This vote was merely a way to provide himself and the senior management with a convincing justification.
Just as Sega was pounding the Japanese arcade market into disarray with three heavy blows, Ted Turner, on the other side of the Pacific Ocean in Atlanta, pressed the launch button on his viewership nuclear bomb.
Tuesday night at 8 PM, TBS Superstation.
No lengthy opening monologues, no pointless song and dance performances.
The screen suddenly lit up, revealing a single stark white spotlight focused on the stage's center.
Bobby Batista, the CNN anchor who usually delivered grim reports on the Gulf War or Wall Street crashes with a stern expression, now sat in her signature high-backed chair.
Pushing up her frameless glasses, she exuded an oppressive aura, like an interrogator grilling a suspect—a suffocating tension that radiated through the television screen.
"John, a truck driver from Ohio."
Bobby's voice was as calm as if he were reading a verdict. "You've answered fourteen questions correctly and are holding $500,000. Now, if you answer this final question correctly, you can take home $1 million."
The camera suddenly zoomed in for a close-up of John, the middle-aged contestant. A bead of sweat dripped from his stubbled chin onto his collar. His fingers gripped the armrest so tightly his knuckles turned white, and his bloodshot eyes were shot with red veins.
In the background, that damned heartbeat sound effect throbbed rhythmically, pounding against the eardrums.
In thousands of living rooms across America, the cheese on the pizzas had congealed, and no one was drinking their beer.
Families huddled around the television, holding their breaths, afraid to disturb the man making the most important decision of his life.
"I should remind you," Bobby suddenly interjected, his tone taking on an alluringly dangerous edge. "If you give up now, you can walk away with a $500,000 check. But if you answer incorrectly—even if you're off by a single letter—you'll leave with only $32,000. The remaining $468,000 will vanish into thin air."
John swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing violently.
"But let me add one more thing," Bobby said, leaning forward. His sharp eyes seemed to pierce through the camera, addressing every working-class American across the nation. "To prevent those IRS vampires from biting a huge chunk out of your bonus, the Self-Made Group has hired the top tax lawyers in the country. We'll provide you with full tax planning support—installment payments, trust funds, charitable deductions—whatever you choose. In short, we'll ensure that this million dollars stays in your pocket as much as possible, rather than flowing into Washington's coffers."
Boom!
If a million dollars alone was tempting, the promise to "protect your money from the IRS" was like a direct hit to Americans' collective sweet spot.
In a country where only death and taxes are inevitable, legal tax avoidance is more thrilling than landing on the moon.
The viewers at home erupted in excitement.
After much internal conflict, John finally couldn't resist the allure of the million dollars and tax planning support. He chose to continue answering the questions.
Then!
Just as John was about to answer, the final question was preceded by a specially inserted GG segment.
This segment was designed by TBS to ensure that, in the event of a potentially high-cost prize payout, there would be sufficient revenue to offset the expense.
At this adrenaline-pumping moment, TBS wasn't worried about giving away a huge prize. Instead, they had already recouped the potential prize cost through the ten-second GG fee.
Even if someone did win a million dollars, the GG Merchant would foot the bill. TBS's only job was to count the money and reap the viewership.
Viewers cursed GG, hated GG, but they couldn't even dare use the restroom, anxious to see if that unlucky contestant would lose everything.
For a moment, the entire nation erupted in a torrent of F-word-laden curses directed at TBS viewers.
Fortunately, the GG segment lasted only ten seconds, so viewers' tense emotions weren't broken. They remained fully invested in the contestant's anxious plight.
"Pick A! Damn it! Pick A!"
"Don't listen to that woman's threats! It's Oscar! Choose B!"
The clamor from countless households nearly shook the roofs off.
At TBS headquarters, Ted Turner stood behind the wall of monitors in the control room, watching the busy staff at the director's console. He was so absorbed that he didn't even notice the ash from his expensive cigar falling to the floor.
"Madness... utter madness."
Vice President Betty, who had just hung up the phone, turned to him. "Boss, our TBS hotlines are swamped. GG Merchants and people wanting to sign up for the show are overwhelming the operators—they can't keep up!"
Turner took a deep drag of his cigar. Through the swirling smoke, his hawk-like eyes glinted dangerously.
"Tell the operators to switch out if they can't handle it! Anyone who lets the lines go dead tonight can pack up and leave tomorrow! We'll bring in extra operators from other stations for the next broadcast." He laughed heartily and slapped the console. "Zhongshan was right. This is the ultimate romance of capitalism! This is what Americans want to see!"
On the screen, John finally made his trembling choice.
"A... I choose A."
Bobby Batista stared expressionlessly at him for a full five seconds, until John was on the verge of collapsing. Then she slowly spoke: "Is that your final answer?"
At that moment, the air across the entire United States seemed to freeze.
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